


Honor Among Thieves

by Increasing_Paranoia



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-10-30 09:21:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17826062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Increasing_Paranoia/pseuds/Increasing_Paranoia
Summary: She’s just crossed the bridge when the man steps from the shadows. Willow tenses slightly, one hand on the handle of a dagger while the other is instinctively shoved into a pocket to protect the majority of her valuables. The man smiles easily as if knowing exactly what she’s doing, like he’s been there before himself. And then he opens his mouth and speaks.





	1. A Chance Arrangement/Taking Care of Business

Later, Brynjolf will ponder on what prompted him to approach the Bosmer. If he’s being completely honest, he first approached the elf as a mark. The lass had walked into Riften with _Dragonplate_ armor and a woman trailing after her like a long shadow. The thief only needed a glance to know the follower was a housecarl – the armor and way she shadowed her companion’s every move a clear giveaway. Brynjolf could practically _taste_ the coin the woman was carrying. He had followed her for a few streets, watched as the tension bled out of her shoulders, even while her housecarl become more agitated, and that’s when he knew: This elf was cut from the same cloth as him. His intentions shifted and instead of approaching her as a mark, he approached her as a recruit.

When he’s being completely honest, Brynjolf can admit that he expected the elf to fail. The Thieves Guild has been floundering for years, no matter how hard he tries to stop the backward slides. Mercer seems entirely immune to it – it doesn’t seem to phase him at all and this lackadaisical attitude doesn’t sit well with Brynjolf. Mercer is supposed to be leading the Guild but more and more responsibility seems to be falling on Brynjolf. When the elf – Willow, as he later learns – successfully steals and plants the ring without issues, Brynjolf exercises his right as second-in-command and extends an invitation to join the Guild. He sees the light come on in her eyes and she follows him into the Bee and Barb, asking questions about the Guild and what she should expect. Brynjolf snags them a table back in the corner and they settle in, Willow finally removing her helmet. Brynjolf gets the first real look at the lass and for a moment, he is struck breathless.

The Guild member has worked with a number of different races throughout his years but Willow is not quite what he expects. It’s clear that she was of elven heritage – the pointed ears sticking out from her head, the almond shaped eyes – but it is also clear that she is not a full-blooded elf. Her skin tone is not as dark, her face not as oval, the features not as severe. Her eyes, he notes, were green and her hair was a simple shade of brown, the long locks pinned up in a messy bun to fit under her helmet.

“You said the Guild’s been having issues?” she asks, absentmindedly running her fingers through the stray locks that had worked their way free.

“Aye, lass,” he agrees, pulling his attention back to the conversation. The elf might be pretty, but Brynjolf makes it a point to never mix business and pleasure. He’s seen how that’s worked out for Vekel and Delvin. Speaking of Delvin… “Delvin calls it a curse. I’m not sure _what_ it is but it seems like every job we take, something seems to go wrong.” He’s not sure why he’s telling her this, it’s certainly not helping his sales pitch at all, but, well...honor among thieves and all. She deserves to know what she’s getting herself into. The news doesn’t seem to throw her any. She agrees to make her way down to the Ratway.

“Not now, though,” she states. “I’ve got some things to take care of. I only came into the city to move some merchandise. ...and maybe to make some more,” she adds with a smirk. Brynjolf matches her smirk, wishes her happy hunting and leaves her to her work. He’s got his own work to take care of, after all. It’s time to put more pressure on Keerava.

~

If Willow hadn’t desperately needed to offload some merchandise, she probably wouldn’t have even set foot in the godsforsaken city. She almost hadn’t, after the gate guards tried to shake her down. HA! Shake _her_ down? She’d almost put a knife in their guts but she didn’t feel like getting tossed in a cell and while she may not have physically harmed them, their ears were sure to be blistering for several days. She doubted she’d have any trouble from _any_ of the guards in this city again – elf or not. Still, she’d barely made it ten steps into the gate when some thug tried to stop her and pry into her business. Her armor and the downright maniacal grin on her face must have given him pause, because Willow pushed right past him and he declined to follow. When she’s finally in the main part of the city she breathes a sigh of relief and heads for the shops.

It doesn’t take her long to realize she’s being shadowed. The man is stealthy, she’ll give him that. If his hair wasn’t such a bright shade of red, she might not have remembered him. As it is, she keeps an eye on him. She could make Lydia aware of him, point him out and let the woman do her job but for the month or so that the Nord has been with her, she has done nothing to make Willow overly fond of her. It is quite evident that the woman takes her job seriously, but it is also quite evident that the woman holds true to the old Nord beliefs of racial supremacy. Willow has no doubts that Lydia would fail to grieve her death, should Willow die before her. The housecarl also understands nothing about subtlety and she has no doubts that Lydia would rush over and confront the Nord immediately if Willow let her know they were being followed. So the elf keeps her mouth shut and keeps an eye on their tail.

She's finished in the shops and is heading towards the merchants in the middle of the city when she runs into him again. She’d been keeping her hands to herself despite her twitchy fingers – she didn’t want to be caught by the man and risk prosecution – but that hadn’t stopped her from eyeing up potential marks. There was just something about the city that made her feel at home here and she feels the tension leaving her shoulders despite Lydia’s clear agitation about being here. She’s not sure what it is about Riften that rubs the woman the wrong way, but Willow refuses to let it keep her from finishing her errands. She’s just crossed the bridge when the man steps from the shadows. Willow tenses slightly, one hand on the handle of a dagger while the other is instinctively shoved into a pocket to protect the majority of her valuables. The man smiles easily as if knowing _exactly_ what she’s doing, like he’s been there before himself. And then he opens his mouth and speaks. For a moment, Willow is briefly distracted by his voice. She has never heard an accent like his before, though she’s pretty sure he is a Nord as well. As it is, it takes her a moment to realize that he’s calling her out on being a thief. She knows she should be more than a little pissed off about this, but really she’s just bemused. And then she’s intrigued.

As she listens to the man’s scheme she’s fascinated. He’s offering her the chance to prove her skills and quite possibly make some coin out of it. She asks a few questions – for her own sake more than anything else and then takes the man – Brynjolf, she learns later – up on his offer. She can tell Lydia is less than pleased by her actions, but Willow doesn’t care. She’s takes care of herself, has since she woke up with bound hands and a splitting headache on the way to meet the Helgen Headsman. She can’t really remember much of her life before then, but being a sneak thief has worked in her favor so far and when you’re literally recreating a life for yourself, it’s a quick way to make a _lot_ of coin. And coin, more than anything else, is what Willow is interested in.

The lock on both the gate and the strongbox is laughably easy, and she’d have a talk with Madesi about it if she didn’t think it might work in her favor later. She knows she only needs the ring to complete the plant but that doesn’t stop her from swiping the extra coin, too. It is just sitting there, after all. With the easy part of her task completed, Willow concentrates on planting the ring in Bran-Shei’s pocket. She’s nervous, though she tries her best to quell the butterflies in her stomach. While she is a fairly successful pick-pocket, she’s never had a reason to put something _in_ someone’s pocket before. She hopes it’s not too different. But by the grace of the Gods, she completes the job and Brynjolf gives her a proud smile. Something inside her squeezes pleasantly at the sight, but she ignores it. She’s got more than enough on her plate, she’s not looking to add to it. Still, she’s intrigued when her new friend mentions the Guild.

She follows him into the Bee and Barb, peppering him with questions about the group and what she should expect. He answers her questions, amused, it seems, by her eagerness, but she shrugs it off, sliding into the seat across from him. She removes her helmet, happy to be out of the blasted thing – it might help keep her safe, but it didn’t mean it was _comfortable_. She glances back at the thief across from her but Brynjolf seems distracted by something. Still, if his Guild has been having troubles, it would explain his preoccupation.

“You said the Guild’s been having issues?” she asks. The question brings his attention back to their table, and the older man leans in, continuing their conversation in soft tones. It would be almost intimate, if they were discussing anything other than business, she thinks and she fights to keep the smirk off her face. Once Brynjolf has finished his story, they both sit back and Willow takes a few moments to think on things.

“If you _are_ interested, come meet me at the Ragged Flagon. It’s down in the Ratways under the city. You make it there, I’ll have more work for you,” he tells her.

“ _If_ I make it there?” she asks, one eyebrow raised. The man across from her merely chuckles.

“Consider it another test.”

“I’ll be there,” she assures him. “Not now, though. I’ve...another errand to run.” She glances out the window, remembers how the whole ground shook. _Dovahkin._ The word echoes in her head. She doesn’t know what it means, but she intends to find out.

“An _errand_ , eh?” Brynjolf asks with a laugh. “Alright lass. You run your errand and we’ll see you down there soon, yeah?”

* * *

 

Willow sighs as the doors shut behind her. She had answered the summons of the Greybeards but she had learned little more about her talents and they did not seem eager to teach her, at least not until she took care of their glorified fetch mission. So, they would wait for her to retrieve the horn of their founder, hm? They would be waiting for a good long time.

“Shall I mark Ustengrav on the map?” Lydia asks as they begin their trek back down the mountain. Willow can feel a vein in her eye throb. For all that the Nords distrust magic, they seem to place a great deal of trust in fables. Once the Greybeards had confirmed that the Bosmer was ‘Dragonborn’ her entire demeanor toward her Thane had changed.

“Not right now. I have other things to take care of,” she tells the warrior. “Once we get back to Ivarstead, head back to Dragonsreach.”

“As you wish, my Thane,” comes the response. Willow knows that Lydia is not happy with being dismissed. The elf also knows that Lydia’s unhappiness is because she is well aware that her Thane will be heading back to Riften. But if Willow is going to be sent to retrieve things, why can’t she retrieve things she’ll be paid for? The trip back down the mountain is uneventful, all wildlife having been dispensed with on the way up. The inn comes into view and Willow heaves a small sigh of relief. She just wants to fall into bed before renting a carriage (or stealing a horse) and taking off for Riften. But the relief is short-lived.

Two men in yellow and red clothing approach her, their faces hidden behind some type of white mask. Her eyes immediately narrow in suspicion, and she rests one hand on the handle of her sword. Their clothing is strange, not something she’s seen in her travels around Skyrim and she wonders if they are strangers to the land, too.

“You there!” the larger one all but shouts at her. “You’re the one they call Dragonborn?” Her immediate reaction is to lie. Who or what she is is none of their business, and aside from the court in Whiterun, no one seems to know the true identity of the Dragonborn.

“The Greybeards seem to think so,” she answers, hoping that it is evasive enough to continue on her way. But their response sinks her hope.

“Then it is too late. The lie has already taken root in the hearts of men.” The two men look at each other and both give a small nod. “So we shall expose them to the falseness in their hearts by tearing out yours, Deceiver! When Lord Miraak appears all shall bear witness. None shall stand to oppose him!”

There are times when living a dangerous life pays off. Having highly developed senses is one of the perks and it has saved Willow’s life many times. Her visitors have barely managed to finish their threat before her sword is drawn and slicing through flesh. She watches dispassionately as the man’s head falls to the ground, followed shortly by the rest of his body, and by the time she has cleaned her blade and re-sheathed it, Lydia has taken care of his companion.

“Now, let’s find out who sent them,” she mutters before kneeling down and searching their pockets. She is not worried about being seen – the few townspeople have already turned in for the night and it is amazing what guards can be bribed to forget. She grabs what little they have to pawn – no use in letting merchandise sit if it can be swapped for gold – before finding a note.

_Board the vessel Northern Maiden docked at Raven Rock. Take it to Windhelm, then begin your search. Kill the False Dragonborn known as Willow before she reaches Solstheim._

_Return with word of your success, and Miraak shall be most pleased._

Solstheim. Miraak. The words mean nothing to the elf, though she makes a note of both of them. She will be on the look out for further individuals of this little...cult, or whatever it is. And she will most definitely be making a trip to Solstheim in the future.

“I await your orders.” The sentence brings Willow’s attention back to the present. Lydia stands before her, sword and shield still drawn.

“Stand down,” she orders. “It was just the two of them and I doubt anyone else is looking to cause a ruckus tonight. We will stay at the inn tonight and then you will continue back to Dragonsreach tomorrow.

“My Thane...” the housecarl begins, though she cuts herself off. “By your orders.” The woman stalks into the inn ahead of her Thane, disapproval radiating off her in waves. Willow ignores her in much the same way that she has been since the woman was thrust onto her. She knows that if Lydia had her way, they would be on the next ship to Solstheim and she has no doubt that Lydia would be interrogating every citizen in Raven Rock to find out about this Lord Miraak. But Willow has always been a proponent of working smarter, not harder. She will wait and see if anyone else approaches her. And in the meantime, she’ll make some gold.

She leaves Ivarstead, and Lydia, early the next morning before the sun has even risen. The trip itself is relatively uneventful aside from the occasional wolf or bear. Dusk is setting as she approaches the gate. The guards open the doors before she says a word and she cannot help the smirk that flits across her lips. Clearly word has gotten round about the foul-tempered Bosmer. Once inside she pauses to consider her next course of action. She could, she thinks, bed down at the Bee and Barb or make right for the Ratway and Ragged Flagon. After a moments hesitation she decides to make for the Thieves Guild. She adjusts her bag, summons what remains of her energy and forces her feet to move.

She makes it to the center of town before realizing she doesn’t know where the Ratway is located. She knows to take the staircase to the lower portion of the city, but the specific door was never discussed. Willow finds one of the beggars sleeping next to Brynjolf’s stall and wakes her. She is less than pleased to be shaken awake but gold smooths over any hard feelings and she returns to sleep a few gold richer.

With her new knowledge, Willow crosses one of the town’s many bridges and makes a right, reaching the stairwell down to the lower portion of the city. At the foot of the steps, she turns left and enters the doorway. She pauses inside the door to let her eyes adjust. It also gives her a moment to assess her surroundings, which works in her favor when the voices echo down the stones and reach her ears.

“I dunno, Drahff. They’d skin us alive if they knew we were doing this.” The man sounds nervous, and Willow immediately crouches to make herself smaller.

“Why are you always acting like such a big baby? I’ve gotten us this far.” His companion, Drahff, responds. He sounds irritated, as if he is tired of his companion constantly second-guessing everything.

“This far?” the first man responds, contempt clearly dripping from his voice. “We’re livin’ in a sewer. You said we’d have a house as big as the Black-Briar’s by now.”

“You worry about bashing people’s heads in, I’ll worry about the Guild. Okay?” The Guild? She thinks. So, these people are also interested in the Guild. But are they looking to join, or attempting to rip them off? Her hand instinctively grips her dagger as she begins to creep down the hallway.

“Okay, okay.” The first man responds. It’s clear to Willow that Drahff, whoever he is, is the brains behind the operation while his companion is the muscle. While the companion might question and become irritated with Drahff, he will continue to follow until told otherwise.

“I’m going to check the entrance to the Ratway. Be right back.” The sound of footsteps departing echo off the stones, covering the little noise Willow makes. Eventually she reaches the edge of the lamp light and she sees a man standing next to two bedrolls. It’s clear that the gentlemen have made a small camp here, but one look at the man before her tells her that he is no thief. So, the men have come to rob the Guild then. She curses her luck. If she had had the chance to take out Drahff first, she might have had the opportunity to reason with this man, but that ship has sailed. As it is, there is no way that she could take them both. With only the slightest hint of regret, she steps up behind the warrior and slits his throat. A soft sound escapes from him, followed by a gurgle as the air escapes from his windpipe and mixes with the blood. The noise is enough to alert his companion and she steps back into the shadows.

A man walks directly in front of her and she holds her breath, hoping he won’t spot her. He doesn’t, too occupied with the body of his partner. While he is distracted by the corpse, she steps forward, her hand tightening on the dagger’s handle to keep it from slipping too much. She grabs the collar of his fur armor and slips the blade along his ribs at an upwards angle. The blade strikes his organs, and Drahff falls to the floor in a motionless heap.

“What a waste,” she mutters, pulling out an old rag and wiping the dagger clean. She frowns as she spots blood still stuck in the grooves, but it can’t be helped. Not until she has a moment to sit and properly clean the weapon but it will keep. It always does.

She steps through the next room – empty except for the support columns – and she can see that the bridge has been drawn up to keep people out. She wonders if this is just a natural protection, or if the Guild had known about the campers. She supposes she’ll know soon enough. She steps up to the ledge before kneeling down and peering over. She cannot make out much but it appears to be a safe drop and she sits, swinging her legs over the edge and hopping down. She lands with a soft ‘thud’, the leather of her boots helping to muffle most of the sounds. She pauses, waiting to hear if anyone or anything has been alerted to her presence but nothing follows. She straightens up and looks more closely at her surroundings. In front of her is the wall which supports part of the bridge and she can see light off to her right. Still, there is another passage to her left, one shrouded in darkness, and she decides to check that out first.

A short passage way leads to a gate which is, predictably, locked. The lock itself is of a better design, indicating that someone was willing to shell out the money to keep something safe. It immediately piques the elf’s interest and she drops to a knee, reaching into one of her hidden pockets and pulling out her lockpicks. Frowning down at the dwindled supply – she’d have to restock soon – she decides to give herself two tries at unlocking the door before giving up and checking out the other passage. She jimmies the first lockpick into place and gives a few testing nudges. It resists the first few nudges before turning with ease, though the metal snaps before it releases the lock. She releases a curse before grabbing a new lockpick and repeating the action. This time she hears the ‘click’ as the lock releases and the door swings open with a soft ‘creak’. She shoves the rest of her lockpicks back into their designated pocket before standing and brushing the dust from her pants.

Crossing through the doorway, she notes that the left and in front of her are dead ends, but to the right is a set of stairs leading up to a brightly lit room. She climbs the steps, keeping close to the wall as she creeps forward. The stairwell opens into what looks like a kitchen, with a rough wooden table in the middle. Someone stands at the table, attention focused on something Willow can’t see.

“Hello.” She greets, chancing to move into the light. It seems to be the wrong choice, as the woman, an Imperial, immediately becomes hostile, drawing a war axe and charging at the elf. Willow moves to the side, tripping the warrior and letting her own momentum carry her forward and down the stairs. Willow pauses, and when it becomes clear that the thug is struggling to regain her feet, she draws her bow and an arrow and fires. The woman immediately ceases all movement. Willow slings her bow over her shoulder, wondering if the men and woman are meant to be part of her trial or if there are just this many individuals of questionable sanity running around the Ratway. With another shake of her head, Willow looks around.

The room is, in fact, a kitchen, with meat and vegetables piled onto the table. There is a fireplace with a kettle, though no one appears to be in any hurry to cook. A wooden door is to her left, and an open archway across from her. She quickly crosses the floor and looks through the archway. The passage way leads to another set of stairs, which head down to the right and she remembers the alternate passageway – the one she had not yet checked out. She would bet all the gold in Riften that this was where that passageway came out. When she turns around, she notices another archway and she can just make out the shape of the bridge, drawn up to prevent anyone from crossing. She feels a satisfied smile break out across her face. She’s done it. She’s reached the Ragged Flagon.

She strides to the wooden door and gently turns the handle. The door swings open easily, as if the hinges were kept well-oiled. It’s the first thing down here that’s been well-tended to, she notices. She steps through and shuts the door quietly behind her, taking in the gigantic space that she’s just entered.

The room itself is circular, with water occupying the center of the room. A dock has been built out onto the water, increasing the amount of usable space in the room. A sewer grate in the ceiling lets in light, or it would, she thinks, if it weren’t the middle of the night. On the opposite side of the room, several candles flicker, and she can hear voices drifting through the air. That, she thinks, is her destination. As she creeps around the edge of the room, she can see a sign being lit up by a large brazier. _The Ragged Flagon,_ it proclaims and she smiles again. She steps, as quietly as possible, across the wooden bridge and pauses to listen to the conversation.

“Give it up, Brynjolf. Those days are over.”

“I’m telling you, this one is different,” Brynjolf responds.

“We’ve all heard that one before, Bryn! Quit kidding yourself.” A different voice says.

“It’s time to face the truth, old friend.” The first voice adds. “You, Vex, Mercer...you’re all part of a dying breed. Things are changing!” Willow steps from the shadows and moves toward the group. The motion must catch Brynjolf’s eye, because he turns to watch her approach.

“Dying breed, eh? Well what do you call that then!” He turns away from his companions, a tall thin man behind the bar, and a blond built like a tank, and approaches her. “Well, well...color me impressed, lass. I wasn’t certain I’d ever see you again!”

“Getting here was rather easy,” she responds. “I hope no one was overly fond of Drahff and his not-so-little friend. And you’ll need a new lock for your gate.” Brynjolf raises his eyebrows.

“Reliable and headstrong? You’re turning out to be quite the surprise!” A pleased look flashes across his face and Willow fights to keep her features blank. “You said Drahff was here with Hewnon?”

“I only heard Drahff’s name. He was trying to find a way in. You might want to move their bodies before the guards begin asking uncomfortable questions. There’s a third body outside the Flagon. Some thug who attacked me.” She shrugs.

“I’ll have Dirge take care of it,” Brynjolf assures her, motioning to the blond man from earlier. “So...” he continues, refocusing on her, “now that I’ve whetted your appetite with our little scheme at the market, how about handling a few deadbeats for me?”

“Deadbeats?” Willow asks, wondering how, exactly, the man wants them handled. A beat down? No, he’d have sent that juggernaut of his. A dagger to the back? She could do that, but she didn’t think that’s what he meant.

“They owe our organization some serious coin and they’ve decided not to pay. I want you to explain to them the error of their ways.” For a moment, her temper flares.

“If you want your debt collected, send Dirge,” she snaps. Brynjolf merely smiles as her.

“Consider it another test, lass,” he explains. “I know you can pick locks and people’s pockets without notice. You even snuck into the Flagon without attracting attention. Now, though, we will find out if you can collect without killing people. This isn’t the Brotherhood – we don’t kill those who upset us. Show us that you understand that.”

“Fine,” the elf responds. “Who are they?”

“Keerava, Bersi Honey-Hand, and Haelga. Do this right, and I can promise you a permanent place in our organization.” Willow gives a sharp nod, turns on her heel and exits the Flagon.

* * *

Brynjolf watches the slim form of the elf disappear into the darkness. He had begun wondering, after the weeks had passed, as to whether he would see her again. It was troubling, to say the least, to find his thoughts so hung up on one person. As more days passed he was convinced that she had changed her mind and yet he still hung stubbornly to the belief that he would see her again. Vekel had given him grief for it and the two had had many discussions about the future of the guild and whether some elf was going to be their salvation.

But she _had_ come. She had picked one of the most difficult locks, taken out three people just to get here and had made it seem like it was child’s play to her. Yes, she was definitely going to be a breath of fresh air within the Guild.

“Dirge,” he calls, motioning for the man to come closer. “It seems our new recruit took care of another little problem for us. Drahff and Hewnon were attempting to break in again and had the misfortune of running into a blade on the way. Same with a thug looking to shake down our thieves. Handle it in the usual manner. If you need an extra pair of hands, grab your brother.”

“Understood,” Dirge responds, before heading out of the Flagon.

Brynjolf crosses into the Cistern and looks over the various jobs that they have lined up. They’re pretty sparse, if he’s being honest – a testament to how poorly the Guild is doing at the moment. It’s only their connection to Maven Black-Briar that’s keeping them afloat. Still, with some hard work and a new thief, Brynjolf is positive they would turn this around. He flips through some more paperwork, pausing here and there to take in the particulars of the plans. In truth, though, he’s not really reading anything and is just wasting time until his new protege returns.

He flips through the rest of the plans before putting them back in a neat pile and returning to the Cistern. He’s just ordered a drink and is sitting with Delvin when he hears the sound of boots on wood. Part of him wants to jump up and run to find out what happened, but he forces himself to remain sitting. He watches as the elf crosses over to their table and tosses a bag of gold onto it.

“Keerava wanted me to tell you that it was all a misunderstanding. She didn’t mean to tell you to go jump off a pier and she’s so terribly sorry.” Her lips quirk into a mischievous smile and between the shock of seeing the entire debt paid and Willow’s message, Brynjolf laughs.

“Aye, I’m sure she is. So, you did the job and did it clean. Excellent. I’d say you more than proved yourself. Follow me and I’ll show you what we’re all about.” He stands and begins leading the way, his heart beating quickly in his chest. It’s time for Willow to meet Mercer.


	2. Loud and Clear - Part 1

_Follow me and I’ll show you what we’re all about._   
  


The man stands from his table and heads toward the back of the Ragged Flagon. Willow falls into step behind him, trying to calm her racing heart. They leave the main tavern area, moving back to the storage area and Willow watches silently as the man activates a false panel in one of the closets. More stone rooms greet them as they step through, the rooms empty except for the torches mounted on the wall. The floor feels slightly uneven under her feet, worn down by the tread of the thieves and she adjusts her balance as she continues following the older thief, turning to the left. There is a door straight ahead, and they pass through it.  
  


A long passage way greets them and Willow feels slightly claustrophobic with all this stone around her. She keeps her eyes trained ahead where she can see the passageway opening up. The room looks similar to the Ragged Flagon – large and circular with a grate in the ceiling to allow in light. This room, however, has a raised stone platform over the water, as made evident by a man standing in the middle of it. He looks to be around the same age as her new mentor, though nowhere near as friendly.  
  


“Mercer,” Brynjolf calls out as they get closer. “This is the one I was talking about...our new recruit.” The man in question remains unmoved, arms crossed in front of him.  
  


“This better not be another waste of the Guild’s resources, Brynjolf.” The man’s voice is deep, and the Bosmer sees how someone could be inspired to follow him. She herself is not overly impressed. If the Guild is truly doing as poorly as Brynjolf indicated, their leader would be foolish to turn away any help, especially when the person in question has shown how helpful they can be. She says nothing, merely crosses her own arms and shifts her weight to one leg, making it look as if she is bored already. “Before we continue,” Mercer begins, turning to look at her, “I want to make one thing perfectly clear. If you play by the rules, you walk away rich. You break the rules and you lose your share. No debates, no discussions. You do what we say, when we say. _Do I make myself clear?”_  
  


“I know how to follow rules. But if you want someone to blindly follow orders, I suggest a dog,” she answers drolly. “I’ve found them to be much easier to train than people.” Her answer provokes amusement from the red-head, but the Guild leader appears to be anything but. She knows that she has just possibly ruined her chance of becoming a member but she somehow cannot bring herself to care.  
  


“And what is that supposed to mean?” the brown-haired man growls, taking a step toward the female. Willow feels the ache in her leg – her body wants to shift the weight and let her kick out. She knows the kick would catch the man in his chest. But the only movement she makes is to tilt her head to one side.  
  


“If you want to tell me where to go and who to steal from, that’s fine. I will be more than happy to do so,” she says softly. “If you expect me to follow behind you like some lackey, to perform for your own amusement, then Lorkhan take you.” The man stares at her and Willow meets his eye. Something hard glints back at her, giving her an uneasy feeling in her stomach. The man is a danger, though she couldn’t say to whom.  
  


“I think it’s time we put your expertise to the test.” There’s an edge to his voice that wasn’t there before. Brynjolf seems to catch it as well, judging by the uneasy expression on his face.  
  


“Wait a minute,” he interrupts, moving closer to her side. “You’re not talking about Goldenglow, are you? Even our little Vex couldn’t get in.”  
  


“You claim this recruit possesses an aptitude for our line of work. If so, let her prove it.” She watches as Mercer switches his attention from his second-in-command back to her. “Goldenglow Estate is critically important to one of our largest clients. However, the owner has suddenly decided to take matters into his own hands and shut us out. He needs to be taught a lesson. Brynjolf will provide you with the details.” The man moves for the first time since their introduction, but the red-head stops him.  
  


“Mercer, aren’t you forgetting something?”  
  


“Hm? Oh, yes. Since Brynjolf assures me you’ll be nothing but a benefit to us, then you’re in. Welcome to the Thieves Guild.” The news is delivered with no emotion on the other man’s part and the words have barely left his mouth before he turns on his heel and walks off. Willow watches him leave, eyes narrowed to slits. Something is definitely wrong here.  
  


“Welcome to the family, lass,” Brynjolf tells her with a smile. Whatever seems to be bothering her, it’s clearly not affecting the Nord. “I’m expecting you to make us a lot of coin, so don’t disappoint me.” Willow raises an eyebrow.  
  


“When have I ever done so?” she teases, amused when the man seems taken aback.  
  


“You’re an impertinent one,” he chuckles. She shrugs.  
  


“Like I told Mercer, if you want someone who will obey orders blindly, get a dog.”  
  


“I thought he was going to flay you alive for that,” Brynjolf responds, suddenly quite serious. “There is a reason the Guild has rules, lass, even if you might not agree with them.”  
  


“I understand that, Brynjolf and I will obey the Guild rules and go where I’m told. But I will not follow orders just because someone feels like shouting them at me. If I wanted that, I’d have joined one of the godsforsaken armies that seem to abound these days.”  
  


“No offense, lass, but the army doesn’t seem quite your style.”  
  


“They don’t pay as well, either,” she tells him, catching his sight in her peripheral. He gives her a sly grin.  
  


“Interested in learning about your spoils? I respect that. Talk with Delvin and Vex. They know their way around this place and can kick some extra jobs your way. While you’re there, talk to Tonilia. She’ll set you up with your new armor.”  
  


“I’ll see them on my way out. What can you tell me about the Goldenglow job?”  
  


“Goldenglow Estate is a bee farm; they raise the wretched little things for honey. It’s owned by some smart-mouth wood elf named Aringoth. Perhaps he’s a relative of yours,” he adds dryly. Willow merely rolls her eyes and motions for him to continue. “We need you to teach him a lesson by burning down three of the estate’s hives and clearing out the safe in the main house.”  
  


“And the catch?” she asks. There's always a catch.  
  


“The catch is you can’t burn the whole place to the ground. That important client Mercer mentioned would be furious if you did.”  
  


“I suppose it wouldn’t do to a cross a client on my first _official_ job.”  
  


“Aye,” Brynjolf agrees. “The last thing we want to do is cross our clients.”  
  


“And Aringoth?” she asks.  
  


“Maven prefers that Aringoth remain alive, but if he tries to stop you from getting the job done, kill him.” She nods, turning to head back to the Flagon when Brynjolf stops her with a hand on the shoulder. “The Guild has a lot riding on this. Don’t make me look foolish by mucking it up. And watch yourself on that island. Those mercenaries don’t take prisoners.” She looks over her shoulder and gives the thief a sharp smile.  
  


“Neither do I.” And then she’s off, heading back to the Flagon to speak with Vex and Tonilia. Delvin will have to wait.  
  


~  
  


Brynjolf watches as the small elf disappears from his sight. All he can do now is wait to hear whether or not she’s successful. For the tenth time in as many minutes the Nord wonders what could have possibly prompted Mercer to give such an important job to a new recruit. None of the others had been given such a monumental first job. _Though,_ he thinks with a wry grin, _none of the other recruits had been quite as mouthy._ Brynjolf can appreciate others challenging his ideas. It’s the quickest way to find any flaws. Mercer, on the other hand, expects absolute loyalty and obedience from all. It wasn’t the best way to run the Guild, but Brynjolf is just grateful that someone was willing to step up to the leadership role after the loss of Gallus. He sighs as a wave of grief rolls through him. He will never get over the loss of the man. Damn Karliah for her betrayal!  
  


“Your recruit better deliver, Brynjolf.” The man in question grits his teeth.  
  


“She will,” he promises. _Provided you haven’t sent her to her death._ “An unusual task to put on a new recruit, though. Especially when the Guild’s best infiltrator already failed.” He turns, finally facing Mercer and he notes the odd look on the man’s face. It disappears when Mercer realizes he’s being watched.  
  


“Call it a hunch,” he answers. “If you truly have as much faith in her as you say you do, then she’ll have nothing to worry about. Send her to me when she returns,” he adds before strolling away to do...whatever he’s been doing lately. The man has been noticeably absent recently. Putting the thought from his mind, Brynjolf returns to his correspondence. He’s been reaching out to their fences throughout Skyrim, trying to see how the Guild could start building footholds in the cities again. He’s angling for Windhelm since it’s the closest but the Guild will need more influence first. Hopefully Willow, Vex and Delvin will be able to help with that. But first Willow will need to survive Goldenglow.  
  


* * *

 

Willow can feel eyes following her as she heads back to the Flagon, but she doesn’t look back. Right now her focus is on proving herself and she will take great joy in rubbing her success in Mercer’s face. Still, it won’t do to get cocky, she thinks. She’ll pick up her armor from Tonilia before stopping to speak with Vex.  
  


She casts her eye around the flagon and sees two other females. A blonde Imperial is leaning up against a stack of crates next to a wall. Her outfit matches those of the other thieves, and the elf surmises that she is Vex. Out on the dock is a Redguard, her hair slicked back into a tight bun. Her outfit is similar to those of the thieves, but different enough to set her apart and Willow heads in her direction.  
  


“Tonilia?” she asks, standing close enough to be heard but just out of reach of a dagger.  
  


“So you’re the new recruit, eh?” the woman asks, giving the elf a once over. “Well, looks like you and I are going to have to get very well acquainted.” The words bring a fleeting smile to the elf’s face. “I’m the fence down here,” Tonilia continues. “You come by anything you don’t exactly own and I’ll pay you some coin for it. Minus a little slice for the Guild, of course. I can also provide a few supplies useful to our trade now and again, for a small fee.”  
  


“Is there anything you don’t charge for?” she asks. It’s mostly a joke, but it seems to miss its mark as Tonilia’s face hardens.  
  


“Sure, how about I get Dirge to knock you over your head and dump you into the cistern?” Something must show on the elf’s face because Tonilia sighs and backs off. “Look, I’ve been in this business a long time and I’ve seen all types. You can play it tough, you can play it smart...whatever. At the end of the day you’ll find all we care about down here is how much gold you can make us.” Willow scoffs and crosses her arms.  
  


“Getting gold is already my intention. I’ll do so with or without the Guild’s backing.”  
  


“Good,” Tonilia states. “Then there isn’t much more to say.” She stands and opens one of the many crates being kept out on the dock. When she turns back around she has a bundle of cloth in her hands. “Here’s your armor.” She thrusts the clothing at Willow and the elf fumbles before getting a grip on the leather. “Just make sure you put it to good use.” The thief nods her thanks and slides into one of the disused nooks and crannies and changes out of her dragonplate armor.  
  


The armor is much lighter and fits her lithe figure much better. The armor itself has an assortment of hidden pockets where she can hide away items she’s taken without raising any suspicion. Each article has a slight sheen to it – a telltale sign that it’s been enchanted. She’ll have to ask Tonilia for more information regarding the enchantments once she’s returned from her assignment. For now, she settles the hood over her hair and stashes her dragonplate armor in one of the abandoned barrels. Then she carves her insignia on the barrel – a clear warning not to touch. She hopes it’s enough. _Honor among thieves, indeed,_ she thinks.  
  


With her load lightened, she turns her attention to the other woman in the Flagon. Vex is still leaning up against a stack of crates and Willow has barely approached the woman before the blonde’s mouth starts running.  
  


“Before we begin, I want to make two things perfectly clear. One, I’m the best infiltrator this rathole of a Guild’s got, so if you think you’re here to replace me, you’re dead wrong.” Willow sighs internally but lets the woman keep going. “And two, you follow my lead and do exactly as I say...no questions, no excuses.” The elf feels her teeth grind together.  
  


“I was going to ask you about Goldenglow, but forget it. I’ll take care of it myself.” She turns on her heel but barely manages a step before the other thief is shouting at her.  
  


“Hey! Where do you think you’re going!” The blonde is fuming but the brunette doesn’t turn around, merely glances over her shoulder.  
  


“I don’t know if you treat all of your new recruits this way and I don’t much care.” Her tone is cold. “I’ll tell you the exact same thing I told Mercer: I’m not your damn lapdog. Now, if you don’t mind, I have a job to take care of – the one _you_ failed to complete.” Willow expects the Imperial to explode in rage. The woman does not seem to the type to control her temper, but the elf is surprised. Rather then anger, the blonde laughs.  
  


“Then we understand each other. Good. Now that I know you can handle yourself, it’s time to get your feet wet and I don’t want to waste a lot of time talking about anything but business.”  
  


“What business?” she asks, turning back around to face her companion.  
  


“I’m not going to sugar-coat it for you. We’re in a bad way down here.” The news matches information Willow’s already received, but, she thinks, perhaps Vex has a reason for it. Something _other_ than a curse.  
  


“Any idea why?” she asks, mimicking the blonde’s pose and crossing her arms.  
  


“Who knows,” is the reply, which indicates that no, Vex doesn’t know the reason for their spot of tough luck. “Old Delvin thinks it’s some kind of curse. _I_ think he’s crazy.” Willow has not yet met the man, and so she has no sort of opinion. She keeps quiet. “If you want my opinion I say it’s just plain old bad luck.” It would be a long time before Willow could appreciate the irony in that statement.  
  


“So what can we do?” She asks the question for politeness’ sake, but in reality she already knows what she’s going to do. But she needs to keep Vex talking so the woman will be more inclined to give her information about the bee farm.  
  


“You can get out there and start making a name for us again...make them start fearing us like they did long ago,” Vex growls. “And, while you’re at it,” she continues, tone suddenly solicitous, “make a little bit of coin on the side. Not a bad deal, eh?”  
  


“Speaking of work,” Willow begins, “Mercer put me on Goldenglow. Heard you ran into a bit of trouble there.” Vex harrumphs, but at least seems willing to talk.  
  


“Yeah, I did. That wood elf’s wit...he’s a lot smarter than I expected.” For a moment the Imperial looks annoyed, then she seems to resign herself to the failure and continues on. “Can you believe that fetcher had more than tripled the guard? There must have been eight of them in there!”  
  


Willow turns the information over in her head. So, at least eight guards when Vex first tried to break in, which was already an increase from the usual posting. She has no doubts that the amount of guards will have increased following the failed burglary. The question is, how many would the fetcher have added? If he’s smart, he’d have ten or twenty in the house itself and at least as many patrolling the grounds outside. So, twenty to forty men. Doable, but not easy. She frowns for a moment, wishing she hadn’t sent Lydia back to Whiterun. She could use a companion to watch her back for this. But with Lydia back in the hold, she’ll have to go this alone. She doesn’t want to waste her coin on hired muscle when the person in question could leave her twisting in the wind.  
  


Lost in her thoughts, it takes her a moment to realize that Vex has ended her portion of the conversation and is looking at the elf expectantly. _Might as well ask,_ she thinks.  
  


“Any tips to get me in there?”  
  


“Well,” the blonde begins, her face a mask of concentration. “There’s an old sewer tunnel that dumps into the lake on the northwest side of the island. That’s how I slipped in there. Should still be unguarded.”  
  


The elf thanks her and heads back out to the Ratway. Once out on the walkways she pauses, blinking rapidly to help her eyes adjust to the sun. Gods, but she forgets how dim it is in the Ratways. As she jogs up the wooden steps she wonders whether she should stop into the Bee and Barb. A mercenary could usually be found loitering around the inns but if her memory recalls the one in Riften is a mage. Magic, while useful, is much too untrustworthy on sensitive missions and is not very useful with stealth missions. She could run back to Whiterun for Lydia, or send a messenger for her, but it would be a pointless delay and her pride is demanding she finish this mission as soon as possible, if only to rub it in the faces of the Guild members. She can still hear the barkeep’s words as she took her leave. _That’s Brynjolf’s new protege, eh? Doesn’t look like much to me._ She grits her teeth and pushes past the shopkeepers, nearly trampling the beggars beneath her feet. She’ll show them. She’ll show them all.  
  


~  
  


She follows the information provided by Brynjolf and Vex, and finds Goldenglow Estate sitting in the middle of a lake to the west of Riften. She crouches at the shore line and watches as shadowy figures patrol the land. So, there are definitely guards both inside and outside of the house. Perhaps the sewer will be the best way to enter after all. Vex had mentioned it was to the northwest of the island, so Willow keeps low to the ground and begins picking her way along the lake edge. She doubts the guards will pay much attention to her just yet – she’s still well away from the island – but it never hurts to be extra cautious. Pride does come before a downfall, after all. She grimaces, knowing that it is her own pride that brought her here without any back-up.  
  


She skirts the edge of the lake until she nears an old abandoned fort. She keeps her distance – she knows how bandits like to make these locations into a stronghold and she doesn’t feel like getting caught with her pants own. She pauses, scanning the area to see if she can spot the sewer grate, but she sees nothing. She’ll have to take her chances in the water. Silently sending a prayer to Jone and Jode, she slips into the cool liquid, gritting her teeth to keep from gasping. She lets herself sink down into the murk and then pulls herself along in even strokes. When she gets to the deepest part of the lake, she rises slowly until she hovers just under the water. Her vision is slightly distorted , but she can see clearly enough, and her position allows to tip her head up until her mouth and nose break the water. She sucks in some much needed air and then sinks back down to peer at her surroundings. She sees what looks to be a well, though it is much to low to the ground and with one more lungful of air she begins swimming towards it. The ground inclines sharply, and she crawls, belly close to the ground to avoid raising suspicion. When she reaches her target, she raises the wooden lid and peers down into the darkness below. So, Vex was right about the sewer entrance being unguarded. But that didn’t mean that there wouldn’t be nasty surprises down below.  
  


She eases the wooden lid up further and slides over the stone wall. She’s fortunate enough to spot a ladder leaning against the wall, and she climbs on, lowering herself slowly so that she can place the wooden lid onto the stones. She climbs the rest of the way down and pauses to listen. Nothing. But that doesn’t mean she didn’t have company. Her dagger is strapped to her thigh for easy access and she has her favorite blade – an ebony sword she nicked off the corpse of some cultist in the mountains. Secure in the knowledge of her weapons, she moves forward.  
  


She blinks as she exits the sewer. Nothing but skeevers and traps – child’s play to get around. The real test will be in getting through the house without raising the alarm of the guards outside. She pauses to take stock of her surroundings before turning to her left and testing the front door. She curses. Of all the things that could trip her up, this would be the worst. The lock is the best money could buy and the elf has forgotten to restock her lockpicks before leaving Riften. With a muttered oath to Stendarr, she kneels down and pulls out her remaining lockpicks. Her prayer apparently heard and answered, the lock gives and she eases the door open, slipping inside. She shuts the door behind her and takes a deep breath. There’ll be no going back now.


End file.
